


a lone tsubaki blooms

by kaumari



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, First Dates, Getting Together, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Pining, What is tagging honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaumari/pseuds/kaumari
Summary: “I’ve told you before, Kiyoomi-kun, there’s no need to be so formal,” Ushijima answers, and when he looks at him there’s a certain softness in his eyes Kiyoomi’s has never seen in reality. He’s frozen in place, trying to place this turn of events, when a snake crawls out of a pocket in Ushijima’s overalls. A bleached-bone snake, full of life. Their tongue flickers in and out of their tiny mouth as they curl around the hand Ushijima presents. “Hello, Shiro. Did you sleep well?”Kiyoomi's visions are never wrong, and maybe that's the scariest part about all of this. A snake, a vision, and some camellia blooms are all it takes for him to pull him back into the narrative.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50
Collections: UshiSakuWeek 2020





	a lone tsubaki blooms

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S STILL AUGUST 13TH HERE SO I'M OKAY I'M FINE
> 
> ushisaku week day:  
> 3 — magic

Lately, his visions have been becoming more insistent. They keep trying to tell him something, he knows this, but they're buried so deep in the surrounding dream that Kiyoomi hasn't been able to pick them apart. He normally doesn't have this much trouble separating the two, but they’ve been blending together, a secondary color he has a little hope of reversing. Every morning for the past three weeks, he jerked awake panting, trying desperately to grasp the wispy vestiges of something he knows is important but continues to elude him. He’d sit in silence until the sun rose completely above the horizon, holding his thoughts in limbo to calm his racing heart, and then get out of bed to prepare himself for the day.

The routine Kiyoomi adheres to every day serves him well. It grounds him after a night of floating freely through poorly understood metaphors and hastily deciphered dreamspeak. He's no professional, but he has been dealing with them for sixteen years on his own and is of the opinion that, for the most part, he knows his needs and limits. It doesn’t hurt that his cousin is a licensed potion brewer.

The routine is like this. Get out of bed with the sun. Dreamers sleep the whole night, or until their dreams lose patience, and Kiyoomi likes to keep consistency. Write down the important parts of the dreams. Visions don't always make sense at first. Brush his teeth, shower, start a pot of tea. Miso and rice and an egg for breakfast. He liked to keep it simple. Go to Motoya’s shop. Every day, without fail, he accomplishes these tasks and feels he has set himself to rights.

The only exceptions to this routine are nights like this one, where he can't keep hold of dreams long enough to make them tangible in words. It means that for the past three weeks he has been arriving at Motoya’s shop twenty minutes early, to his cousin's growing concern.

Potion brewing is a strictly regulated business, and Motoya is by no means a follower of strict regulations. He can't be too cruel: it's not that Motoya doesn't care. It's that he has the memory of a chimpanzee. Kiyoomi tried to explain to Motoya once that chimpanzees have worse memories than goldfish, but only two days later the same argument reared its head. It only proved his point, but there was no use arguing with someone who would forget anything you told him if it wasn’t written down. So Kiyoomi got roped in as Motoya’s assistant at Camellia Blooms in the hopes he would keep the place organized and clean enough to pass building codes and sanitary inspections. He was right, of course, but Kiyoomi didn’t have to like it.

He allows Motoya one compliment in the privacy of his thoughts. He has a decent aesthetic sense. Even from a distance, the painted wood of the shop sign invites customers inside: a soothing deep green background, broken up by pale pink lettering and an arch of camellia blossoms. The cobblestone front turns into cobblestone floor when he enters, his face instinctively scrunching at the sound of the cheery welcome bell above the door. From around one of the millions of plants they keep in the storefront—for both decoration and sale—Motoya’s head peaks out.

“Still haven’t gotten that vision wrangled?” He doesn’t even need to look at the time. Kiyoomi vaguely resents this fact.

“No.” he notes the rag and spray in his cousin's hands and raises an eyebrow. “Cleaning?” Motoya looks back down at his hands as if he'd forgotten what he was holding.

“Oh yeah! I finished prep work and stocking early so I thought I'd give you a headstart on your cleaning. I finished the shelves near the back and the counter, exactly how you like them!” He sounds inordinately pleased with himself, which makes Kiyoomi roll his eyes.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He makes his way to the back, weaving in and out of the rows of plants and shelves. The counter certainly looks dust-free. “Wiped down twice?”

“Every single inch,” Motoya confirms. Kiyoomi hums his satisfaction and holds out his hands for the cleaning supplies.

“We have some new shipments in storage. Go organize and label them, I'm sure even you can't mess that up.”

“So cruel, Kiyoomi,” Motoya teases, but he disappears quickly to get started on his task.

At 8:50, he wipes down the final window and takes a minute to pour about the cloudy gray sky. It's a nice day, all things considered. He's partial to any weather with the lack of sun, which Motoya insists is evidence of diluted vampire heritage. The clouds seem heavy, and he hopes it will rain today. He unhooks his mask to savor the blessed clean of the shop, although he dimly registers that he wishes the harsh chemicals were replaced, only for a moment, by earthy petrichor.

At 8:55, he calls Motoya back from storage where he had, predictably, gotten distracted by a game of balancing empty boxes on top of each other. While Kiyoomi handled general inquiries and the shopfront, much to his distaste of interacting with people, Motoya kept watch over his potion stocks and helped anyone with questions about the brewing process. He also took appointments, and Kiyoomi knew he had one at 9 sharp because he’d somehow become Motoya’s personal secretary.

At 9:00, only moments after Kiyoomi had unlocked the door and put on his mask, a man walks into the shop. He glances quickly at the customer—broad shoulders, square jaw, tan, around his height—and then his gaze ricochets to his hands. The man wipes them neatly on a handkerchief and then folds the dirty side inward—inward!—to be placed back in his pocket. He feels a spark of hope revitalizing his faith in men.

“Good morning,” the man greets, and Kiyoomi blinks out of his reverie.

“Good morning. Are you Ushijima Wakatoshi?” That’s the name of Motoya’s appointment, and he can’t think of any other reason to be at this shop so early.

“Yes, I have an appointment with Komori-san at 9.” Polite and punctual.

“He’s through that door.” Kiyoomi gestures to the door next to his counter. The metal framework around it is inscribed with various kanji for protection, on the off chance an experiment goes wrong. “He knows you’re coming,” hopefully, he adds to himself, “but be careful around the pots. Some of them could be volatile.”

“Thank you.” Ushijima dips his head in a casual bow and passes by him to enter Motoya’s potion room. Kiyoomi watches his go, then catches himself and scowls. He was not fawning over a customer, and even if he was, there would be no point. He’ll never see Ushijima again, and he’ll be better off for it.

... -. .- -.- .

Everything is muffled. Hazy eyes dart aimlessly, searching for what they cannot see. Cotton ears strain hopelessly, searching for what they cannot hear. But his touch is hypersensitive, every twitch of the dream a shock to an understimulated system. He recoils from it, curls in on himself in hopes of escaping this torture. It reaches into him, wraps itself around bones and lungs and hearts, hearts, more hearts than he knows what to do with. They beat in tandem, pulse under his skin, why does he have so many hearts with none of them are his? He gasps, soundless, closer to losing himself than ever before, and then he is falling through. Falling, falling, falling, and he doesn't hear the crack when he hits the ground.

He only hears a hiss, soft against the shell of his ear, and it says, “Find him.”

... -. .- -.- .

Kiyoomi wakes up twenty minutes before sunrise, and for the first time in four weeks, he has to stifle the immediate rush to write down his dream. He remembers it vividly; even now he has to contain his discomfort, his senses rampant with the suggestion that the tangled, electric dream is still in him. His fingers twitch. His heart feels too large, or maybe it's beating too hard. In the space between one breath and the next, that hiss resounds. He recognizes now that it wasn't Japanese. The snake hadn’t spoken so much as projected itself into his mind, but the stranger part was that it hadn’t felt like the rest of the dream. It had felt like a vision.

He needs to talk to Motoya about potions for magic imbalances to ease the morning sickness and, regrettably, schedule a meeting with Miya. Maybe he should preemptively take some ibuprofen (he won't, but it's nice to imagine what he would do if he cared less about his health). He gets up with the sun and prepares for another day.

There's a 9 o'clock appointment today, for Ushijima Wakatoshi. Exactly one week after his first consult, so it was likely a project that required a follow-up. He remembers broad shoulders and a tan, careful hands, and a deep, calm baritone. He finds himself looking forward to seeing Ushijima again. Then he takes a good, long look at himself in the mirror and demands himself to stop feeling misguided affection for a man he has met exactly once.

Ushijima is unfailingly polite, exactly as last time. He still wipes his hands on a handkerchief and folds it inward. But this time, when he leaves Motoya’s potion room, he says, “Have a good day, Sakusa-san.” The barest hint of an accent rolls off of “Sakusa-san”, and isn't it just has looked at the man his thoughts have so graciously decided to fixate on is a countryman like his only ex?

... -. .- -.- .

It's not entirely fair to call Miya Atsumu a countryman. It's an insult to all proper countrymen, actually, and Kiyoomi makes sure to tell him as much the moment he speaks in kansai-ben to greet him.

“No need ta be so cruel, Omi-kun!” Miya cries dramatically. He presses an open hand over his heart. “Ya’ll break my heart clean in half.”

“Good.” Kiyoomi enters without waiting for a proper invitation because a) knowing Miya he wouldn't bother and b) Kiyoomi has long lost most of his respect for the man-child in front of him. Only the gods know why he ever had so little self-respect as to date a Miya.

He has no respect for Miya as a person, yes, but as a magical creature, he begrudgingly gives him his due. The moment Kiyoomi gingerly sat at the kotatsu, Miya asks, “So are we here ta talk about the dreamdust blockin’ ya from sight or didja miss my stunnin’ personality?”

“Is it actually blocking me from view?” Kiyoomi presses, scowling to emphasize that he better focus on the actual problem. The lazy smirk vanishes and Miya’s face settles in serious lines.

“Ya didn’t know?” If Kiyoomi watches out of the corner of his eye, he can see how Miya’s form flickers between realities. And has boldly red-lined eyes, sharper nails, elongated canines. The other is in front of him, by all accounts a normal human if looked at directly. It had been a quiet pleasure for Kiyoomi to spend long, empty minutes watching the film between realities quiver and meld. Now, it is a long-dormant habit. “What the hell didja do, Omi-kun?”

“Isn’t that what I come to you for?” he retorts.

“It’d be nice ta have a clear cause, but ya clearly have no idea what’s goin’ on.” He taps his fingers rhythmically on the table as Kiyoomi bites back his irritation. He knows better than to interrupt Miya when he’s thinking. The expectant silence drags on, one minute turning into two into five, and then Miya blinks himself back to this reality.

“Yer visions, they haven’t been comin’ ta ya very clearly.” It’s not a question, but Kiyoomi nods anyway. “The dreamdust is collectin’ because yer hangin’ onta the dreams ya couldn’t make sense of. But ya’ve never had problems with ‘em before–” another not-question, “–so somethin’ is keepin’ those visions from reachin’ ya. Yer nonsense dreams, they felt important didn’t they?”

“Yes.” Miya’s face scrunches pensively. Kiyoomi’s exhaustion doubles.

“I’m gonna hafta network this one. If it’s a spirit’s work, ya either fight it off or I call Shin ta take care of it. And I know ya won’t like the second option.” It’s irritating that Miya still knows him well enough to sound so confident. Is he that predictable?

“Call me when you have an update.” It’s a clear end to their time, and in a disturbing show of maturity, Miya graciously accepts it for what it is. Kiyoomi supposes that’s one aspect of Kita’s influence on him. He’ll have to send him a gift for finally teaching Miya some decorum.

... -. .- -.- .

Tonight, the snake is coiled around his arm. Towering trees surround them, all their branches meters off the ground. Kiyoomi can't see any way to climb them. The snake doesn't move as he begins to walk—no squirming or writhing, as if they're nothing more than a glorified bracelet. ‘Move,’ he thinks to them. ‘Show some spirit.’ The trees get shorter, shrinking into bushes, then weeds, then nothing at all. The snake does not move. The trees get taller, growing from saplings to mature trunks, then crashing into each other like dominoes and decaying into nothing. The snake does not move.

His arm has decayed. He can hardly see the motionless snake against the bleached whiteness of his arm

... -. .- -.- .

The visions have never told him to get involved. It's a deviation from the standard, horrible to entertain the thought of. But he has to say, thinking about his visions and unthinkable future is preferable to thinking about how Motoya and the Naga halfling disappeared into storage over half an hour ago. Motoya has an appointment with one of the Hirugamis in twenty minutes, and Kiyoomi sure isn't going to bother to look for him.

His phone rings. Twice. On the third, he picks up.

“Still superstitious, eh Omi-kun?”

“What do you want now, Miya? I told you to call with updates.”

“Ya just keep tearin’ me apart. I actually have somethin’ new for ya.” Kiyoomi hums. “Shin knew a miko and asked her ta consult with me. She said someone might be tryin’ ta send a message, but somethin’s blockin’ it. Might be the reason ya couldn’t get an honest vision recently.”

“Doesn’t answer the question of who.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Thought ya might like at least a workin’ theory s’all.” He’s right, but Miya doesn’t need to know that. He checks the time. 3:50. He stifles his curse, tells Miya to call with relevant news, and heads to the storage rooms.

Kiyoomi has always been lucky. He assumes this fact to be the reason why Motoya and the Naga—Daishou, Motoya’s voice whines petulantly in his head—open the door just as he’s approaching it. Kiyoomi’s luck only goes so far. He knows this fact is the reason why the two look like they were one bad decision away from Kiyoomi walking in on them. Neither of them looks ashamed about it.

As Daishou leaves, with a self-satisfied smirk in place and, in all likelihood, a boner, Kiyoomi glares at Motoya and asks, “Did you have to spend an hour kissing your boyfriend in our storage room?”

“One, he’s not my boyfriend, two, yes, and three, I’ll clean it up tomorrow.”

“Oh, of course he’s not your boyfriend” Kiyoomi snarks. “You take each other out on dates for fun, and you call each other pet names for who knows why, and you only happen to have his contact saved as 'love of my life' with seven hearts.” Kiyoomi looks directly into Motoya’s wide eyes. “Never lie to my face again.”

“Point taken,” Motoya says, recovering swiftly and layering on the sweetness. “But at least I’m getting some.” Kiyoomi is not above flipping him the middle finger.

... -. .- -.- .

Ushijima greets him by name again. It's his third appointment in as many weeks, and Kiyoomi isn't sure how many meetings it's going to take before he gives in and calls the excitement and anticipation coursing through him a crush. He also, oddly enough, really wants to hold Ushijima’s hand, which is a new idea. He can't remember the last time he wanted to touch Miya in any way.

Kiyoomi doesn't think about Atsumu often, not in the context of his first name. Atsumu, who is always hungry. Atsumu, who would always want more than Kiyoomi could give him. Atsumu, who spent so much time around the world they both forgot what it meant to be in a relationship. Kiyoomi knew Atsumu’s gift as a spirit medium, a trait of his kitsune heritage, was widely sought. He didn't realize Atsumu would make it his life goal to learn all he could about the craft. It had started small, a few days at some northern shrines, then a few weeks abroad in China and Korea, then months out in the Americas and they lost their sense of touch. They didn't reach two years together, and Kiyoomi knows he cared—cares in his own convoluted way—but it's not the same. Atsumu became Miya, Miya started dating Kita, and Kiyoomi felt no need to fill the hole Atsumu left in his life with anyone else. Until now, at least.

He spends the next half hour making a list, titled “Reasons I think about Ushijima and their attractiveness”. Number one is personal hygiene, which he gives a 10/10 for obvious reasons. Number two is sensible clothing, which he gives an 8/10. Number three is biceps, and Kiyoomi hadn't thought he could be so shallow until he gave them an 8/10 as well. Number four is social manners, and Ushijima has been nothing but cordial, so he gives that a 9/10. Only four reasons and Ushijima is a 35/40 on the total attractiveness scale. Kiyoomi wants to plant his face in his hands and turn into a stone statue of misery.

“Sakusa-san, are you alright?” Once again, Ushijima brings him out of his thoughts, to his growing embarrassment. Outwardly, his face betrays nothing as he inclines his head in a facsimile of a bow.

“I’m fine, Ushijima-san, my apologies. Is there anything you need?”

“Komori-san suggested bone meal for my peach moon and camellia hybrids. Which type would you recommend?”

Kiyoomi thinks about it as he leads Ushijima to the jars of bone meal in the back. Peach moon blossoms only bloom during the onset of a lunar eclipse, so nocturnal animals are best. Not bats, but maybe owls. Yes, barn owl bone meal. It's more expensive since more bird bones are needed for the same amount of bone meal—being both hollow and smaller—but it would have the best results.

It's not until the bone meal is paid for and Ushijima is long gone that Kiyoomi notices the handkerchief on the ground. It's instantly recognizable to him, although not by any features of the cloth itself. The least he can do, he rationalizes to the objecting voices in his head, is wash it so it can be returned to its owner.

... -. .- -.- .

There is no snake. There is only an orchard of beautiful, rare, and expensive plants, magical and otherwise. He begins to walk down the row trees, and if he looks sideways he can see the crests of distant shrubs, occasionally luminous and always well-trimmed. When he looks back at the end of the road, there's a figure. That's not out of the ordinary: sometimes, dreams insert people he knows for no reason other than to trip him up. As he gets closer, the figure takes a familiar shape. Broad shoulders, tan, around his height, and though he can't see it clearly, he assumes a square jaw too. Kiyoomi decides his luck is hell-bent on fucking with him.

“Ushijima-san,” he calls out, because this might as well happen.

“I’ve told you before, Kiyoomi-kun, there’s no need to be so formal,” Ushijima answers, and when he looks at him there’s a certain softness in his eyes Kiyoomi’s has never seen in reality. He’s frozen in place, trying to place this turn of events, when a snake crawls out of a pocket in Ushijima’s overalls. A bleached-bone snake, full of life. Their tongue flickers in and out of their tiny mouth as they curl around the hand Ushijima presents. “Hello, Shiro. Did you sleep well?”

“Shiro,” Kiyoomi mumbles to himself. Shiro’s head waves over to face him as if they’d heard.

“Ah, I think they want to speak to you,” Ushijima says, and before Kiyoomi can say a word otherwise, Ushijima’s warm and calloused hand is holding his own. Kiyoomi’s mind goes blank, and then Shiro slithers on him. They don’t project their mind nicely this time. It’s a jumble of thoughts and feelings, memories and visions, and he thinks he might be on the ground cowering in pain, but he can’t know for sure.

The only thing to stand out is repeated over and over until he wakes up: “Find him.”

... -. .- -.- .

Like clockwork, the door opens at 9 the next week. Kiyoomi almost looks forward to Thursdays now, and this time he has an honest, not-a-crush-related reason for it.

“Good morning, Ushijima-san.” Kiyoomi greets him first this time, and he gets the childish feeling he won something. “I have something that belongs to you.” Ushijima’s pinched eyebrows relax when Kiyoomi produces his handkerchief from a sealed bag. “You dropped this last week, and I took the liberty of washing it before returning it to you.”

“Thank you, Sakusa-san. That was very kind of you.” Kiyoomi is very careful to avoid brushing their hands together, but he still feels a thrill at their proximity. Unbidden, the dream returns to him. The two Ushijimas layer over each other, a dream superimposed on reality; the only way to tell them apart is the ghost of a smile. “Would you allow me to treat you to lunch sometime?”

Kiyoomi schools the arch of his eyebrows to hide his surprise. “What do you mean, Ushijima-san?”

“I would like to repay you for your kindness, and you interest me.” One of the brilliant benefits of a mask is that it hides his fish-like expression.

“Then I would be honored.” His mouth moves on autopilot, which he’s grateful for. He’s interesting? Ushijima wants to get to know him? “I’m only free on Sundays and Mondays when the shop is closed.”

“Sunday then. Shall we exchange numbers?” Kiyoomi wordlessly hands over his phone. When it’s returned, he has a brand new contact, as does Ushijima.

He’s still thinking about this development when Ushijima finishes his appointment—they’ve been getting shorter—and this time he says, “I will see you soon, Sakusa-san.”

... -. .- -.- .

It physically pains him to admit that he has spent so long uninterested in impressing anyone but he doesn't understand his own wardrobe. He's not sure what's casual and what’s too casual, trying too hard or not at all. With great resignation and an apology to his future self, he calls Motoya for help.

His cousin arrives in ten minutes, with sanitized hands and questionable use of his emergency key to Kiyoomi’s apartment. “Did Ushijima finally ask you out?”

“It’s not a date,” he retorts, and promptly wishes he’d said nothing at all, or at least denied it was Ushijima. Motoya’s sunshine smile doesn’t falter as he takes the perfect opportunity to hit Kiyoomi where it’ll hurt.

“But you want it to be a date, don’t you?” He strides over to Kiyoomi’s closet without waiting for an answer. “The key is to just barely stand out and to look classy while you do it. Ushijima is a straight-forward type of guy, likes to keep it practical. So I'm thinking we just take your everyday clothes and give them a little upgrade. Pick out something you'd wear to the shop.”

A simple black turtleneck and gray slacks are placed carefully on the bed. Motoya nods appreciatively. “Monochrome is classy. Where are your jackets?” He rifles through the coat hangers and emerges with a gray knee-length coat. “Pair these with those combat boots I got you. Not the olive ones, the black ones.”

“I don't remember owning either of them.”

“You have no fashion sense. And wear your glasses instead of contacts this time. Where are you going again?”

“Satori’s Sweets I think. He sent me the directions earlier today.” It must have been the wrong thing to say. Motoya’s face is shell-shocked. “What?”

“You’re kidding me,” he says breathlessly. “Satori’s Sweets? Seriously?”

“What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that Tendō Satori studied pastry- and chocolate-making in France, returned to Japan to open his own business, and was given a three-star Michelin rating in the Green Guide!”

Kiyoomi stares at him blankly. “Is any of that supposed to mean something to me?”

“It means,” Motoya says as if talking to a toddler, “that he’s greatly-renowned, and after he partnered with Fukunaga to open a culinary menu, the waiting list became months long.”

“Then the dining service must be kept exceptionally clean,” he remarks, gathering his clothes.

“How are you so nonchalant about this?”

“I don’t know how to put this, but I don’t care, Motoya.” He punctuates the sentiment by shutting the bathroom door. “It doesn’t matter to me how or why.”

“Aren’t you at least a little curious?”

“No, not really.” He pulls the turtleneck on after taking off his previous top. “I’m getting myself a boyfriend, which you seem incapable of because you can’t get your head out of your ass.” He puts on the slacks and adjusts the length.

Motoya whistles. “Low blow, cousin. Consider it a favor to find out why. I’m dying to know and I can’t wait until Thursday.”

“Consider your favor vetoed on grounds of stupidity.” Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at his mirror self. With the coat on top of the turtleneck, he really did look more fashionable. Another reluctantly awarded point in his cousin’s favor, he supposes.

He steps out, and Motoya announces, “I told you it would look good.” His smile is too teethy, and Kiyoomi grimaces.

“Stop looking like that, it’s making me sick.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want that! Imagine how sad Ushijima would be.”

“I’m leaving,” Kiyoomi grumbles, grabbing his silver wire glasses and a black cloth mask on his way out. Some sacrifices had to be made for the aesthetic, and his surgical mask happened to be one of the unfortunate casualties. “Lock the door when you leave and don’t eat my onigiri. Miya-kun made them especially for me and I won’t hesitate to ruin you.”

“Yessir, captain!” It’s second nature for Kiyoomi to roll his eyes as he closes his apartment door.

The directions Ushijima had sent him for Satori’s Sweets took him deep into the tourist hotspots of Osaka. Multiple times, he has to stop himself from physically recoiling from said tourists bumping into them. One of them tried apologizing to him, but he said it (badly) in Chinese, and Kiyoomi once again thanked his mask for allowing him to make any number of secret disgusted faces in public.

Despite the woes of navigating the public, he’s still impressed by the ostentatious building housing Satori’s Sweets. It takes up over half the space inside a large hotel lobby, and he can already see why it’s spoken so highly of. The lettering of the signboard is in sleek Japanese calligraphy, gold on a purple background, but there’s also an English translation underneath. It’s only 1:16, and their reservation isn’t until 1:30, so Kiyoomi approaches the waiter’s desk fully expecting to have to burn the next fourteen minutes away.

“Reservation for two under Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

“Ushijima-san has already been seated and is waiting for you. If you would please follow me.” He really shouldn’t be surprised. He’s led to a booth in the back where Ushijima is, although he gets out to hang Kiyoomi’s coat for him. Punctual and polite. He would’ve swooned had he not been the person he is.

“You’re early,” Ushijima tells him when they’re left with their menus.

“I thought we’d have to wait for our reservation,” Kiyoomi says in return.

“Hm, we would have been alright. I have a standing reservation.” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Ushijima-san, why is that?”

“Satori and I are best friends. He offered to be our waiter today.” Motoya would get a kick out of knowing this, so Kiyoomi promises himself his cousin will never hear it from him. It would be exactly what he deserves. “There he is.” Kiyoomi looks over his shoulder to see a man in a conspicuous white chef’s outfit and buzz-cut red hair walking toward them.

“Wakatoshi-kun, it’s been so long since you’ve visited.” His voice is a drawl, more obvious than Ushijima’s, although it has a different energy to it. “And you’ve brought a guest!” An omnipresent sort of energy, Kiyoomi decides, as if he knows more than he decides to let on.

“I told you I was eating with someone today. Sakusa-san, this is Tendō Satori.”

“Sakusa Kiyoomi. I can’t say it’s a pleasure yet, Tendō-san.”

“Oho!” Tendō glances at Ushijima with wide eyes and laughs. “I like him already.”

“I thought you would.” Ushijima has talked about him? He told his best friend about him?

“Enough of this, you’re here to eat the best meal in Japan. What shall I order Shōhei-kun to cook for you today?”

Ushijima looks at him as he says, “I usually order the three-course fish entrée, if that’s alright with you?” If the fish isn’t cooked properly, he could get food poisoning. If it isn’t deboned properly, he could choke. There are plenty of ways fish can become a living nightmare, which is why Kiyoomi avoids it unless he cooks it himself.

“Fish is fine,” is what he says with (almost) no hesitation. Fukunaga would make it, and he’s a highly acclaimed chef. He has little to worry about.

“Wonderful, the first course will be out shortly.” With a wink at Ushijima, Tendō leaves for the kitchen. Kiyoomi sighs and finally removes his mask, folds it inward, and tucks it in his pocket.

“He’s a character,” he comments drily, and it’s neutral enough to draw a huffed laugh out of Ushijima.

“That he is. You’ll learn to take him in stride.” The way he says it, as if there’s the expectation he’ll stick around long enough for it to come true, makes Kiyoomi shake his head slightly to ensure his hair covers the redness of his ears.

“Right,” he says with a strained voice. He clears his throat when he sees Ushijima’s lopsided smile. “Is there something you find laughable, Ushijima-san?”

“Not laughable, only interesting.” There he goes again, calling Kiyoomi interesting. It’s getting to him, although he can’t say he minds. “You didn’t seem like the type of person to accept invitations from strangers.”

“And you’d be right.” Kiyoomi raises a single eyebrow and smirks. “What does that say about you?”

“That my love spell worked,” Ushijima deadpans, and it’s absurd enough that snorts and then shakes as he tries to hold back his laughter.

“So that’s what the bone meal was for,” he says, trying to continue as seriously as he can. “To bring my dead heart back to life.”

“That’s one use.” They share an amused smile at their own ridiculous joke.

“Speaking of the bone meal, how are your hybrids doing, Ushijima-san?”

“I think they’re doing well. Some of the crosses have bloomed, but there’s still a notable deviation within cross pools.”

“I thought peach moon blossoms only bloom before lunar eclipses.”

“That’s true,” Ushijima confirms, his shoulder loosening the longer he talks about his project. “But with the camellia cross and natural growth magic, they can bloom between the waning and waxing crescents. And I’ve found that 80% of the blooming offspring show gradients of peach and the color of the camellia parents.”

“That’s fascinating,” Kiyoomi marvels. “Did you use the bone meal to augment magical growth?”

“Partially. Bone meal is also useful to neutralize soil toxins and provide rare nutrients to some fauna.”

“Does your familiar help at all?” It’s not the smoothest segue into Kiyoomi’s burning question, but it’s burning for a reason. Ushijima doesn’t look the slightest bit taken aback and, to Kiyoomi’s surprise, he even smiles wider.

“I was wondering when you would realize that.”

“We don’t sell bone meal to just anyone.” He’s treated to the rare appearance of crow’s feet at the corner of Ushijima’s eyes for that comment.

“I have a snake familiar. They’re all white, so–”

Kiyoomi holds up his hand. “Wait, let me guess. So you named them Shiro.”

“I’m starting to think you’re using telepathy on me.” Kiyoomi places a hand over his heart and forces a straight face.

“How dare you insult me with accusations of telepathy. I barely have enough spiritual energy to work in a magic shop.”

“Ah, my sincerest apologies, then. You’re clearly no threat.” He looks beyond the booth at Kiyoomi’s back and hums. “Satori is back.”

“I come bearing your meal, good sirs,” he intones, placing down the first course with a flourish. “First, harihari-nabe. Your main course is nanbanzuke, and your final dessert course will be specially organized by me.” He winks at Kiyoomi. “No worries, I have my kitchen cleaned and sanitized consistently.”

“I see. I appreciate that.” When Tendō leaves them to their meal, he asks, “Did you tell him to say that?”

“I only requested he should keep meal contamination to a minimum for your peace of mind.” It’s more thoughtful than he anticipated for lunch with a veritable stranger. “I hope that wasn’t presumptuous of me.”

“Not at all.” Their three courses are easier to eat knowing this. Kiyoomi isn't surprised to find that Ushijima’s company is as comfortable as expected, and they carry conversation easily until Kiyoomi gets an emergency text from Motoya at 3:13.

When he gets back to his apartment—Motoya couldn’t find his spider silk balls, but they turned up exactly where he always kept them—there’s a new text from Ushijima. A picture of Shiro fills his screen, and Kiyoomi’s stomach swoops. It’s confirmation of his visions, and he’s faced with the undeniable knowledge that Ushijima will be in danger.

... -. .- -.- .

He’s back in the rows of trees, but he can’t see the end anymore, or anything beyond the gnarled and twisted trunks. The air is thick with something that feels like it’s choking him, reaching into his lungs and squeezing them tighter and tighter. Shiro is curled over themselves in a towering circle on the dry grass in front of him, and when Kiyoomi crouches in front of them, they lift their head to face him.

“What are you trying to tell me?” He reaches out a hand to trail over Shiro’s scales, and the familiar takes it as an invitation to slither onto his arm. “Why do I have to find Ushijima?”

A flood of images rush into him, not words or thoughts. He blinks wildly, trying not to drown with the overwhelming layers of his vision. A forest, a barn, a beach, a thicket of vines, Ushijima slumped against a tree with a bleeding nose, Ushijima facing off against a shinigami, the peak of a mountain, clouds, a cave. He wades through the visions, plucking out the ones of Ushijima, brushing off the unwanted ones that stick to him. He resurfaces from Shiro’s images and finds himself on his back, the snake settled on his chest.

“Where?” he gasps. He’s out of breath for reasons he can’t determine.

“Don’t know. Find him.”

“Shiro, I can’t find him if I don’t know where he went.”

“Forest. Wanted to find something.” Shiro lifts their head to hover over Kiyoomi’s face. Their tongue flicks in and out as they scent the air. “Soon. Find him.”

The trees around them shudder, and when Kiyoomi whips his head around to look at them, their roots are ripping free of the ground. They creep forward, surrounding him and Shiro. Waving, thorned branches come closer with every second, and Kiyoomi cradles Shiro protectively against his chest as he scrambles to his feet. He curses and searches for a gap to escape through while shuffling backward from the closest line of trees. His foot hits a rock, then steps through nothing. A gaping hole stretches behind him, unseen. Emptiness as far as he can see, and then he’s falling.

... -. .- -.- .

The shop is quiet. Wednesdays usually are, but today it feels oppressive. He wants to ask after Ushijima. He wants to know for sure if he should be worried or not. He spends his time restocking, reorganizing, anything and everything to take his mind off the problem it keeps turning over like a poisonous sea urchin. At 5:37, his phone rings. Twice. On the third, he picks it up.

“Omi-kun, I thought ya’d have me blocked by now.”

“I don’t understand why you have to keep doing this.”

“It riles ya up, Omi-kun. Ya fall for it every time. Could ya open the shop?” Kiyoomi refuses to look out the window.

“Don’t tell me you’re outside.”

“Then I won’t. Doesn’t mean it ain’t true.”

“I hate you, Miya.”

“Yer still gonna let me in though.”

Kiyoomi presses the button to end the call with more force than necessary and without responding. Miya is frustrating as usual, and on top of that he’s still right. He reopens the door, ready to snap at Miya, and finds himself face to face with Kita Shinsuke instead. Miya is behind him, and the smug smile on his face tells Kiyoomi he planned it like this.

“Sorry ‘bout this,” Kita says, a long-suffering sigh following. “May we come inside? We won’t be long.” Kiyoomi wordlessly steps aside to let the two of them in, although he can’t resist wrinkling his nose as Miya passes by.

“Miya, how many times–”

“–Blah, blah, let’s cut ta the chase. Ya’ve been keepin’ things from me.”

“So have you,” Kiyoomi shoots back. Atsumu’s finger had been tapping during their whole first meeting. They stare at each other, waiting to see who would give in first. Miya is stubborn, but he’s also impatient, and Kiyoomi is vindicated when he looks away first.

“I told ya the theory the miko suggested.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Ya’ve been seeing an animal, yeah?”

“A snake,” Kiyoomi answers slowly. Miya looks at Kita and raises an eyebrow.

“I have some experience with witch familiars,” Kita shares, and Kiyoomi frowns.

“Witch familiars? Why do you say that?” He knows why. He wants to know how they know.

“It has ta be a creature with a strong spiritual connection, and as ya’ve described them, they’re likely not a yōkai. Witch familiars have enough spiritual energy ta put themselves in yer dreams, but it’s more difficult the further they extend themselves, whether that’s through time or space.”

“I see. So you think a witch’s familiar is trying to communicate with me through my dreams.”

“Essentially.”

“And,” Miya interjects after Kita, “ya know exactly whose familiar it is.”

“Bold assumption, Miya. How did you ever come to that conclusion?” The sarcasm rolls off his tongue as easily as ever. He allows himself to acknowledge that, at the very least, he misses having someone who gives as good as he gets.

“Come off it, Omi-kun. How many witches around here are strong enough ta find a familiar?” Not many, he concedes with a nod. “And how many of those witches don’t have a fox familiar?”

“How’d you decide the witch doesn’t have a fox familiar?”

“If they did, ya would’ve come out and said it. Ya knew we wouldn’t be able ta narrow it down very far. As it is, they have a snake, don’t they?” His silence is telling. Miya’s eyes droop with pity and concern, and it makes Kiyoomi’s stomach turn. “Who is it, Omi-kun?”

“The dreams have been clearer than ever. I know what’s going to happen.” He keeps his voice clipped. Any emotion is vulnerability right now, vulnerability that he doesn’t want to show.

“Then what are ya waitin’ for?” Calm and directive. Kiyoomi automatically relaxes when Kita asks his question.

“I don’t know when,” he admits, and Miya snorts.

“That’s never stopped ya before. Better ta be safe than sorry, yeah?” Kiyoomi locks eyes with Miya, and for a moment that’s not who he is. He’s Atsumu, challenging Kiyoomi to take a step further than he would’ve alone, to push his limits and take the jump of faith.

“You should leave now,” he says quietly. “I have to close the shop front.”

“Of course,” Kita says, shutting down Miya’s unspoken protests with a hand on his arm. “We’re sorry ta take up so much of yer time.”

“I hope to see you under better circumstances, Kita-san. Good-bye Miya.” He shuts the door to avoid hearing Miya’s protests at being given such an impersonal farewell, but it’s on par with how all their interactions go, so Kiyoomi doesn’t feel too bad about it.

A visit to Satori’s Sweets may ease his concerns.

... -. .- -.- .

“I’m here to talk to Tendō-san,” Kiyoomi repeats to the waitress for the fourth time. He’s getting tired of this constant back and forth, and he can feel his patience slipping as the conversation drags on. As a general rule, Kiyoomi isn’t social, but that means when he’s forced into those situations, he doesn’t have much social stamina. He doesn’t want to snap at a woman just doing her job, but he’s got more important things to get to and she’s posing a troublesome obstacle. “Please, can you just tell Tendō-san that Sakusa Kiyoomi has urgent questions about his friend Ushijima Wakatoshi. That’s all I ask. Tendō-san can decide for himself if he wants to talk to me.”

“I… I suppose I can do that,” the waitress gives in, and Kiyoomi breathes a low sigh. He waits with his hands shoved in his coat pockets, hunched slightly as he leans against a nearby wall. The less room he takes up the better. The waitress returns sooner than he thought she would. “I’m so sorry for the trouble, Tendō-san said he would be more than happy to meet with you in his office. I can take you there if you’d like.”

The office is, for some unfathomable reason, on the second floor of the dining space with a window wall to look over the kitchen. For a space that should have privacy, it’s distinctly anything but. When Kiyoomi knocks on the door, it opens soundlessly to reveal Tendō dressed in something that looks less like business casual and more like an antique collector's event. He swears he has never seen anyone other than old men wear the sweater vest Tendō is wearing.

“Sakusa-kun, I heard you wanted to talk about Wakatoshi-kun.”

“Yes, Tendō-san.” Best to get straight to the point, no matter how much it needles him to reveal his magic. “I’ve been getting visions about Ushijima-san for the past few weeks, and I think he might be in danger. Did he say anything about traveling to find something?”

“Visions?” Tendō asks, tilting his head. “What kind of visions?”

Kiyoomi grits his teeth. “They weren’t specifically about him until these last two weeks. Before that, it was Shiro.” Tendō’s eyebrows rise impossibly higher.

“He’s shown you Shiro?”

“Tendō-san, I’m concerned about Ushijima-san’s well-being right now. Could these questions wait?”

“Right, right, silly me. Well, Wakatoshi did say he would be going to Toyono to get a few soil samples for the hybrid he’s been growing. He wanted to test nitrogen sensitivity in the hybrid.”

“When did he leave?”

“Tuesday afternoon,” Tendō says slowly. “It only takes an hour or so to get to Toyono.”

“Did he take Shiro with him?”

“No, he usually leaves Shiro at home to watch over the plants.” He takes a quick look at the furrow of Kiyoomi’s brows. “Do you think he’ll be able to help find Wakatoshi?”

“Maybe not find him, but if he’s actually in danger, then for whatever comes next.”

“Then let’s go. I’ll drive you to Wakatoshi’s house and drop you off at Aramoto. Here’s my number, call me when you’ve found him.” Tendō slides a card across his desk and turns to grab his jacket from the coat hooks. “No time to waste, Sakusa-kun.”

“Right.” Kiyoomi shoves the business card into his back pocket, where he hopefully won’t have to touch it again until he needs to call Tendō. As they walk out, Tendō calls some orders to the head pastry chef to watch the restaurant while he’s gone, and any queries about the meals can go straight to Shouhei. For a moment, Kiyoomi has to marvel at the sterility of the kitchen, which was much nicer than he expected a commercial kitchen to be, and then he’s whisked out the back door to Tendō’s car.

Ushijima’s house is an unassuming building on the outskirts of Higashiōsaka, and from what Kiyoomi can see, looks like a renovated farmhouse. The structure is too old to have lasted this long, but it keeps many of the traditional elements. The wooden shingle roof is reinforced, and the shōji doors are still in presentable condition. It’s the garden in the small courtyard, however, that catches his eye, and the winding white ribbon between the green stems.

“Shiro!” The snake lifts their head and flicks their tongue in his direction, then slithers rapidly in his direction. Kiyoomi picks him up when he slides underneath the gate and raises him to eye level. “We’re going to find him.”

“Find him?” echoes in his head.

“Yes.”

... -. .- -.- .

An old dream resurfaces on the train from Osaka-Umeda to Ikeda. Maybe it’s because of Shiro pressed against his forearm, curled tightly under his coat to avoid detection. Maybe it’s because he’s lost—lost in many things. His mind, his dreams, his growing infatuation (turning into dedication, because Kiyoomi and Atsumu had one thing in common and it was that they have never done anything in halves). It’s not a dream about Ushijima, or a dream about Shiro, or even a dream about himself. It’s a dream about Atsumu.

It had hurt at the time. No one wants to see the man they’re dating fall in love with someone else. But that had been the vision: a storybook of encounters, past and present and future, of one Miya Atsumu falling in love with one Kita Shinsuke. He begrudges Atsumu for many things (hygiene, philosophies, clothing, the trashier aspects of his personality), but love isn’t one of them. So he watches the pages flip, watches as they meet in high school and drift apart, how they reconnect when Atsumu visits Jokhang, how Atsumu falls over himself to win Kita’s affections. How Kita, amused and kind, accepts, and how the years after are filled with devotion and love. He’d closed his eyes when they got married. No need to ruin the surprise, he told himself, even though the real reason clawed at the walls of his heart.

A lovestruck, goofy grin on Atsumu’s face. Had Atsumu ever looked at him like that? Had Kiyoomi ever looked at him like that? No, of course not. That’s not the kind of people they were with each other. That’s not the kind of people they were then. You grow up and grow apart, no matter how often you try to finish what you start. He’d woken up and stared at the ceiling, and when the sun rose he almost didn’t rise with it. But visions were visions, and his never lied; the only thing he could do was continue with his routine, adhere to it like he always did. Maybe it was partially his fault they broke up. Maybe he started distancing himself first. Maybe he was the one to draw the line in the sand, to separate Atsumu and Miya into two different entities to protect himself.

He’s not sure why it came back to him now. He’s on his way to find Ushijima, not Miya. Too many maybes swirl in his head, but there’s one that stands out boldly.

Maybe he’s letting go to move on.

... -. .- -.- .

Toyono is smaller than he expects from a city in Osaka Prefecture. The city is sprawled between two larger clusters on opposite sides of Tendaizan, but it’s not as big as the wards of Osaka. This, unfortunately, means there’s plenty of forest and not enough time to search it thoroughly. He could pick a random part of the forest and search it, but sundown had been two hours ago and he couldn’t risk missing Ushijima in the dark. Shiro stirs from where they’re huddled for warmth around his neck, as if able to sense Kiyoomi’s rising panic.

“Something wrong?”

“I don’t know where to start. He could be anywhere, and if he’s hurt and I miss him…” he trails off, exhaling angrily. “No, that’s not going to help.” Shiro’s tongue flickers, although Kiyoomi only knows this because he can see the distortion of the little light he has on this hill.

“That way.” Their body stretches in the direction of a thicket on the next slope.

“Can you scent him?”

“Always find scent.” It’s as close to an answer he’ll get. He figured out early that Shiro’s way of communicating isn’t entirely straightforward, and that he doesn’t have words for everything. And as he picks his way through the overgrown hillside, he’s never been more thankful for always wearing thick-soled boots.

Shiro directs him further up the mountain for around twenty minutes, then abruptly pivots to his left shoulder and hisses. “Stay back.” Kiyoomi freezes, then slowly turns his head in the direction Shiro is flaring their frill. In between the trees, he catches a flash of wings and bright eyes. It could be any kind of yōkai, any kind of harmful creatures, but he doesn’t let himself think about that. After a few tense seconds, Shiro’s frill relaxes, and they slither back into a relaxed drape around his shoulders. “Close.”

“That was close,” he agrees.

“No, close. Nearby.” Kiyoomi nearly trips over a tree root.

“He’s nearby?” Shiro’s head bobs, and Kiyoomi analyzes their surroundings with a new focus.

“Keep going.” A ravine appears below them and his eyes widen when they catch on a familiar landmark, half-hidden from the light of the half-moon.

“The cave.” The one from his vision yesterday. There’s an easy footpath down to the bottom, and for once he doesn’t mind the dirt his boots kick up. He’s sure it’ll come back to bite him later, but there are more important things to pay attention to. Such as the slumped figure partially hidden behind a bush, snatches of him visible where the branches are thinnest.

Kiyoomi tears off his gloves—they’re dirty, he tells himself, and if Ushijima has any cuts they might get infected—and carefully turns Ushijima’s face with a hand on one cheek. He has tiny scratches along the left side of his face, starting from his temple and ending near the corner of his mouth, and dried blood around his nose. Shiro slithers down his arm and onto Ushijima as Kiyoomi pulls him upright, searching for any other injuries. He doesn’t immediately find any; there’s no ripped clothing, but internal injuries are always a possibility.

“No worry.” He looks up to see Shiro curled around Ushijima’s neck. As he watches, the kanji for healing writes itself on Ushijima’s forehead, and then his cuts glow white before fading away. Kiyoomi blinks the afterimages away and hesitantly puts his hand back on Ushijima’s cheek.

“Ushijima-san?” His eyes open slowly, in starts and stops as they adjust to the movement and the waking world, and he groans as he forces his stiff muscles to move. Kiyoomi quickly retracts his hand and waits breathlessly for Ushijima to speak.

“Sakusa-san?” Unfailingly polite, even while waking up from unconsciousness in a forest. “Why are you here?”

“Shiro called me.” It’s something Kiyoomi had finally put together after seeing how Shiro slipped into his dreams, and Miya had said someone was sending a message. Kiyoomi can’t say he’s sorry he was right. “What happened, Ushijima-san?”

“I wanted to collect soil samples for my camellia and peach moon blossom hybrid, but I found a shinigami instead.” He lifts a hand for Shiro to coil around, but his familiar stays stubbornly on his neck. “I tried to banish it, and I succeeded, but the magic fatigue incapacitated me. Usually, Shiro would augment my magic naturally, but since I left them to guard the garden I overextended myself. I’m not surprised Shiro chose you.”

“You had us worried, Ushijima-san,” Kiyoomi says instead of addressing the implication of being chosen by a witch’s familiar. He stands up and brushes off the imaginary dust on his pants. “We should leave now.”

“Of course. Let me see if I have the samples.” A quick check in Ushijima’s satchel shows an orderly row of filled vials, unaffected by the events of the past twenty-four hours. Ushijima’s smile is soft as a huff escapes from him, and he latches the satchel securely closed again. “Good. This trip will not have been a waste.”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi agrees drily. “At least it’ll have been worth it.” He reaches down to sling one of Ushijima’s arms over his shoulders and helps lever him up against the tree. He winces when Ushijima’s knee cracks as he straightens it, but Shiro doesn’t seem to be worried about it. Shiro is also most likely asleep, so Kiyoomi is on his own to get Ushijima back to the bus station. They have to rest a few times for Ushijima to catch his breath, and every time he tries to apologize, Kiyoomi waves it off. He’s not as bothered by waiting now that Ushijima is safe. If it were anyone else, any other time, Kiyoomi would have dozens of complaints. As it is, he’s coming to terms with the fact that he’s falling harder than he meant to. That one day, he will be able to say Wakatoshi instead of Ushijima and hear Kiyoomi instead of Sakusa. There’s no hole to fill in his heart, but Kiyoomi can make one.

When they get to the bus stop, he lets Ushijima rest his head on his shoulder. He’s already aware this will be a rare occurrence—Ushijima is too composed—so he allows himself a moment to revel in it. Then he pulls the card in his pocket out with the tips his fingers and calls Tendō.

“Hello?”

“It’s Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Ah, Sakusa-kun. Did you find him?”

“I did. We just arrived at the bus station, and should arrive by train at Aramoto around 11:27.”

Tendō hums. “Good, I’ll pick you up. Would you like me to drop you off at your home, Sakusa-kun?”

“There’s no need,” he says shortly. He can already feel the itchiness of sitting in someone else’s car, without some convenient adrenaline to fight it back. “Minato Ward is too far out of your way, Tendō-san. I’ll be able to catch the final 11:32 train from Aramoto.”

“Mm, if you say so Sakusa-san. Thank you for finding him.”

“Of course.”

The long and short of it is that Kiyoomi never stood a chance. From the moment Shiro appeared in his dreams, from the moment Ushijima stepped into the shop and folded the dirty side of his handkerchief inward, from the moment he decided he had to find Ushijima. He could’ve sent Tendō. He didn’t have to do the dirty work himself. But he hadn’t. None of this was anything he could—would—take back.

Ushijima fell asleep on the train. When Kiyoomi hands him off to Tendō, he can’t tell if he’s imagining the slight resistance he feels from Ushijima. When he takes the last train to Minato, he knows he didn’t imagine the way Shiro’s head followed him as he walked away. When Kiyoomi falls asleep in his own bed, he doesn’t dream. There are no visions to be had tonight.

... -. .- -.- .

The routine Kiyoomi adheres to every day serves him well, that much is true. When Ushijima became a part of that routine, he can’t say, but he can’t say he wants to label it too definitively. There’s something calming, something inevitable about it that way. When he cleans the windows, he looks up at the sky and allows himself a small smile. It looks like it’s going to rain today. He doesn’t know where the urge comes from, but maybe he’ll walk along the banks of the Aji River today. Let the inevitability of the earth wash over him, water above him and water below him and water inside of him.

He opens at 9 o’clock precisely, just as he always does. And the bell rings as he walks away, just as it does every Thursday.

“I have an appointment with Komori-san at 9.” Kiyoomi allows himself a small grin. He’s wearing a mask after all—no one has to know.

“I know you do Ushijima-san.”

“You should call me Wakatoshi.” Kiyoomi turns back to look at sharp, bright eyes. Nothing is ever done easily with him, not even with Wakatoshi.

“Of course, Wakatoshi-san. Motoya is right through those doors.” Ushijima’s smile is challenging as he walks past.

“Thank you, Kiyoomi-san.”

Kiyoomi has always been lucky, and so has Wakatoshi. But this has nothing to do with luck. It has to do with a snake, a vision, and Camellia Blooms. Outside, the sky weeps, and Kiyoomi’s smile stays firmly in place behind his mask. Maybe he’ll ask Wakatoshi to walk with him.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/timelessidyll) \+ [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/timelessidyll)!


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